The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (10 page)

"Adler?" Nate asked as I raised my glass to my lips.

"Sorry?"

"I said, 'eard you found a man."

I coughed into my champagne.

"Yes, yes, that's right."

I put the glass down. I glanced around, but Nate seemed to be the only one interested in the details of my domestic arrangement.

"Must be somefing t'keep yer from so much as leavin' word at the clinic," he said.

"I'm sorry, mate, I--"

"No need to explain," he said. "Complicated?"

"To say the least," I said, relieved that he wasn't holding a grudge. At the same time, the evaluating gaze with which he now considered me set me on edge. The degree of discretion that Goddard required had taken a long time to master. A reunion with an old friend, especially someone as perceptive as Nate, would seriously test that mastery.

"Mmm. 'E's rich." Nate nodded as he scrutinized my appearance: trimmed oiled curls, manicured fingernails, black silk cravat. His eyes narrowed as they fell on my careworn jacket and shirt. "'E's rich, but you're pretendin' not to be." He reached out to stroke the ruby-tipped tie-pin. "Might want to put this away, then." He looked up. "So, wot gives?"

I paused. It hadn't occurred to me to enlist Nate's assistance with my search for the dog. I was more curious about what he was going to ask of me. Not to mention that discussing the blackmailer could put Goddard's identity and criminal activities at risk of exposure. However, Nate was even better connected on the East End than Pearl was. He knew everyone, and everyone liked him--or at least liked to look at him. He could charm information out of a doorpost. And I needed all the assistance I could get.

"It's like this," I began.

I gave him a skeleton account of the past day and a half: the loss of the statue, tracing it to the shop in Miller's Court, ultimately failing to retrieve it, and my subsequent return to Whitechapel to chase the thing down. Once I'd laid down a foundation of truth, it was easy to add embellishmments that led away from Goddard himself. I told him the maid had pawned the statue to buy medicine for her ailing mum, not realizing that it had inordinate sentimental value to her master. She threw herself on my mercy, I said, promised never to do it again, and should her entire family suffer because of a single mistake that anyone could have made? This final embroidery made Nate snigger.

"You 'ad me until the end," he said. "I know you ain't that much of a gen'leman. But I'll keep me eyes open for yer ugly statue--for the sake of an old mate, like. An' I won't make you tell me the real reason you're after it."

"You're a friend," I said. "And now that we've gone through my business, perhaps you can tell me why you were really looking for me." I gestured at the delicacy-crammed table. "The Nate I know wouldn't set Pearl on my trail just to wave his money around."

His face clouded over. He opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated.

"Or maybe you could just tell me how you came to be wearing a silk waistcoat and taking luncheon at the Criterion," I said.

He huffed a short breath of relief, then launched into the slick, rose-tinted pitch of a brothel procurer. I smiled as I fiddled with a piece of smoked salmon. He knew his looks wouldn't last forever. Finding a position in brothel management was a good move. And it sounded like the place on Fitzroy Street was the Athenaeum and a Roman orgy all wrapped into one.

"Gen'lemen only," he went on. "Proper ones, not like them jumped-up mandrakes wot makes their dosh in trade. They say Prince Eddy's stopped by once or twice. Two crowns for ten minutes' work. Less than ten minutes if you knows wot you're doin', an' you knows better than most," he said with an impish twist of his lips.

"Surely you didn't invite me here to offer me a job," I said.

"You lookin'?"

"Not if I value my life."

Goddard owned a number of brothels. To say he'd pull the trigger himself before seeing me loaned out for another man's pleasure would have been the understatement of the century. Not to mention if I could find myself poxed after two years in the same man's bed, who knew what I'd find crawling around down there if I started spreading myself around again?

"Figured as much." He snorted. "No offense, mate, but your man's got you talkin' like the queen 'erself. Probably even tells you 'ow to scratch your arse," he said, nodding toward my hand, which had been slowly working its way southward to address that pesky itch. "Nuffin' wrong wiv that if you likes that sort of fing..."

I jerked my hand out of my lap.

"Don' worry." Nate laughed as I squirmed on the hard wooden chair. "A bit of mercury'll see you right. Mercury," he repeated, no doubt taking my silence for lack of comprehension. "'A night wiv Venus leads to a life wiv Mercury,' ain't that what they say?" He winked obscenely.

"Venus, indeed," I muttered. "It's the heat, that's all."

Nate shrugged.

"'Appens to the best of us. Your man know?"

It was hard to say which I found more terrifying: the blackmailer's threat or broaching the subject of the French Disease--or whatever this was--with the Duke of Dorset Street. Perhaps it was time to start considering my options. Nate regarded me solemnly.

"I didn't ask you 'ere to offer you a job, Ira," he said. "But if you needs one, it's there. A place to stay when 'e chucks you out. Some money, good money, while you still can. Fink it over."

"You'd do that for me?" I asked.

He straightened and held out his hand over the precariously stacked plates. His mouth quirked in the half-smile that had signified for most of my life that Nate would take care of everything.

"As assistant to the manager of the Fitzroy Street Gen'lemen-Only Brovel, I 'ereby extend this offer of employment, in the event wot you needs it."

"Assistant to the--not just a whoremonger, then? How'd you manage that?"

He smirked.

"Got me little ways."

I rolled my eyes.

"You mean the manager was sampling the wares and fell under your spell," I said, turning his previous scrutiny back on him. "He couldn't afford to keep you somewhere off the premises, but he couldn't stand the thought of some aristocratic poof sticking his cock in your mouth."

"Somefing like that," he said, smiling into his champagne. His expression went serious. "'E loves me, though, does Nick. Wants to take us bof away. But before that, 'e needs to get some money togever, find us a place where no one'll bover us. I know wot you're finkin'," he said before I could remind him how seldom those sorts of plans work out. "But 'ere, look, 'e give me this."

He withdrew a pocket watch from his waistcoat. He held it out above the remains of his eclectic feast, where it turned slowly on its chain, the intricate engravings along the edges of the case catching the warm glow of the gas jets.

"'S a token, like. A promise."

It was a pretty bit of metal. The delicate latticework on the case was too feminine for my taste, and the metal itself had been hammered too thin. But who was I to tread on his happiness--happiness that would come to a crashing halt the moment this Nick grew bored with him?

"It's lovely," I said, as he tucked the watch back into his waistcoat. "Real nice."

"Yeah," he said, distractedly hooking the clasp through a buttonhole. His gaze wandered over my shoulder toward the potted palms at the entrance.

"Now why don't you tell me the real reason--"

"Don't turn 'round," he whispered. His eyes had gone wide, and he was staring over my shoulder as if Death itself were approaching. Just as I was expecting to feel the scythe at my throat, his shoulders relaxed and he let out a chuff of relief.

"A bit more?" he asked, nodding toward the champagne.

I shook my head.

His fingers trembled as he emptied the last bit into his glass. He drained it, turning to me with a shaky smile.

"What was that about?" I asked.

I twisted around in my seat, but saw only the trickle of patrons in and out of the crowded dining room. When I turned back, he had gone quite pale.

But he was still smiling.

"Is someone following you?" I asked.

A number of possibilities flashed through my mind. Was this Nick unhinged? The last thing I needed was to get between Nate and a jealous pimp. Or perhaps one of Nate's aristocratic admirers had developed a possessive streak. Lunches at the Criterion didn't come cheap. Maybe Nate's man was taking too long putting together their escape, and Nate had decided to hedge his bet with a customer. Maybe Nick had figured it out.

"I been seein' shadows out the corner of me eye all mornin'," Nate said. He swallowed hard, eyes scanning the crowd. "Look, Ira, I need yer 'elp. Pearl said wot you found a rich man, an' the rich, well, they got connections--real connections, not Whitechapel connections. Maybe 'e can 'elp me, like."

I frowned. Bringing Nate and Goddard together was the one thing I was trying to avoid. Yet how many times had he helped me out over the years, whether it was introducing me to my first customer, or taking me to the clinic when that customer turned out to have rough tastes?

"What have you got yourself into?" I asked.

He let out a long sigh.

"'S like this. Nick's the manager over at Fitzroy Street, an' I keep the books."

"They trust you with money?" I joked.

"I keep the books," he said again, "an' that's 'ow I found out fings ain't wot they should be. That's why I needed to talk to you. Even if you can't 'elp me, I wanted to tell you in case somefing 'appen to me."

"In case what? What are you talking about?"

"Shh!" He looked around frantically. But in the crowded lunchroom, no one had noticed us. He pushed aside a plate bearing the remains of a blancmange and leaned in on his elbows. "There's a customer book, see--'o come in, when, 'o 'e sees, an' 'ow much 'e pays--an' an opium book."

"An opium book?" I asked.

"Mr. Sinclair--that's Nick--'e brings the customers to us. 'E takes their money an' give us our share at the end of the week. We gets room an' board, plus if you likes it, you can 'ave opium for cheap. They take it out of our pay. 'Course Nick 'ad me off the stuff before 'e'd let me touch the books. Worst three weeks of me life..."

Goddard ran his own brothels like rooming houses, involving himself only insofar as to collect rent and a percentage of the profits. Fitzroy Street, apparently, employed the young men directly. The opium was an interesting touch. If this Sinclair could get it at a low price, and convince his charges to use it, it would make them a lot easier to manage. He'd also save on food. It was also conceivable if a person's habit got the better of him, he might actually end up in debt to the house with only one way of working it off.

"Then one day Nick tell me to start keepin' two opium books: one to show the owner when 'e come in each month, and one wot's jus' between Nick an' me."

"Is that so?"

A little graft between friends. It made sense. If Sinclair was trying to put aside a little extra so he and Nate could disappear, he could cut the opium with strychnine or sugar or pigeon shit, even, and make himself a tidy profit. With Nate keeping the books, no one would be the wiser.

"Only it's even better, see. There's this new opium wot the owner brings. 'S twice as strong. So Nick cuts it by 'alf, sells it to this bloke down in Lime'ouse, and the bloke don't know no different. 'S brilliant."

"Until the owner gets wind of it," I said.

The fear returned to his face. He looked away.

"You don't know the 'alf of it," he said. "'E might look like Favver Chris'mas, but that bastard'll slit yer throat soon's look at you. I seen it 'appen. Nick tell me wot 'e were a doctor once, in Afghanistan. Done a lot of unnecessary surgery. But that ain't 'ere nor there. Four months ago the old bastard come to me, an' tell me wot 'e want me to start keepin' anover set of books. Customer books, this time."

"Let me guess," I said. "One set for Sinclair's eyes, and one that only you and the owner know about."

"That's right. An' the new one's 'xactly the same, 'cept wiv a few extra customers wot ain't on the books Nick sees. Twice a month the doctor come by when Nick ain't there, wiv a fat sack of money for the safe, and tell me wot to write in the new book. But bugger me if I ever seen them new customers."

"And this started when?"

"March," he said. "Along wiv the 'sturbances."

A brothel is a noisy place--even noisier at night than the Criterion is at luncheon. Had Nate not been off the roster of talent, what he called the "disturbances" might have gone unnoticed forever. But sitting there in his little room, alone with his thoughts on nights otherwise unoccupied, how could he have failed to be awakened by the bumps and bangs in the gray hours? How could he have ignored the snatches of a harsh and unfamiliar language that accompanied them? Having been pulled none too gently from opium's clutches, how could he not have noticed its distinctive odor, wafting inexplicably up from the unoccupied basement long after the last customer had slunk back out onto the darkened streets?

"I fink the owner's movin' more'n opium," he said.

"I think you're right."